Bring Him Home
by Snowfilly
Summary: 'Have you seen my friend? His name's Mickey Webb.' After an undercover operation goes wrong, Jack's left needing a miracle. Mickey's left doubting and running from everything he ever knew. Novel length fic. Chapter six now up. Jack searches for his friend, and remembers a summer night from a few months and half a lifetime ago
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer – Most characters and settings here are the property of Thames TV and I have made no profit from their use. The title is taken from the song 'Bring Him Home' from the musical Les Miserables.

 **A/N – This is the opening chapter of a very long – 80,000 plus – novel. The sequel is 50,000 and complete in second draft. When I started writing this, TB was still on air, and life was rather different. Some of the original ideas and beta-ing was done by Webbswoman, and the title was her suggestion. I'm warning for all content here – drug use and abuse, self harm, prostitution and a lot of angst, including references to in show rape and child abuse. And although Mickey and Jack are the main characters, and as much I shipped them, this is not a romance. So, hello to old readers and new ones; I hope you enjoy.**

 **Prologue 2** **nd** **August**

The boy died easily. He sighed once, the machine that had been noisy turned silent, and his hand in Mickey's felt just the same. Part of Mickey's heart envied him. A tiny part but it screamed and yelled, reminding him how lucky the boy was. Thirteen, with an angular skinniness that came from rapid growth and nothing more sinister. Brown hair with a slash of fluorescent green down the centre and dead eyes that were still a bright shade of hazel. Beautiful, with all the arrogance and grace that came from being on the cusp of manhood, and at peace.

'God bless,' he muttered, and letting go of the boy's hand, pushed himself to his feet. Let himself out of the room, past the parents who were screaming at each other over whose fault it had been. He didn't think that they knew he was dead, so he walked away and kept on walking. At least Jolan had had someone with him; that was important.

Something to keep in mind, next time the world around him went to Hell. He'd been thirteen. Thirteen, for God's sake...although he didn't think that God was anywhere around here at the moment.

Sun Hill, which should have been peaceful, a refuge from the memories of the hospital, felt like a war zone. Too many people in too small an office; Meadows and Heaton strutting around CID like a pair of dogs gunning for a fight, and it was a mark of how tense they were that not even Meadows noticed him arrive. It felt like being a ghost, unnoticed and unwanted.

An hour later, they were sitting in the briefing room, listening to Heaton talk. None of them had come to ask him where he'd been, what had happened. Eleven of them. Heaton, Meadows, himself, obviously. Jo and Smithy, Max Carter – looking at their faces was better than looking at his memories of the blonde boy dying in the white bed.

'Uniform have found someone who saw the three men selling to kids at Longstreet's pitch...He's prepared to swear to us that they were the ones selling it, but not in court – his kid lives in the area, and he's not prepared to take a risk like that.'

Sensible decision. He nodded; saw that most of the others looked disapproving. A flicker of that old anger, which he tried hard to push down. Even Max Carter, sitting next to him, looking complacent, didn't know. But Meadows was nodding, and that made it alright.

As long as the DCI agreed, it was OK. He was right, he wasn't alone.

No matter how it felt.

'That's four deaths directly due to whatever they're pushing over there...and let's face it, there's probably been a couple more that we haven't got to hear about. Out of our way.'

He stuck his hand up, like a kid in a classroom. Alright, he'd hit Heaton once, but in general, he respected the man. No need to barge into his lecture on what they already knew.

'Five, Sir.' Always Sir – Meadows was Guv- and he'd never really thought about it. It was just a fact. 'Jolan Heritage died a couple of hours ago, in hospital.'

A soft intake of breath around the room; whatever he'd taken, Jolan had only been a kid. In the row ahead, several seats over, Meadows turned and looked at him.

 _Are you alright?_

Old friend that he was, the DCI didn't need to speak to convey that. He managed a smile in response; knew that it would be discussed later. But it wasn't the first kid who had died in front of him, and it wouldn't be the last. Just another thing to come to terms with, another invisible cut that would mostly heal in time.

The plastic seat squeaked in protest as he shifted around, trying to get away from the regard of the others. Of course there was nothing accusing in their faces; it was only on the faces of Jolan's parents that he'd seen anything approaching that. Even he couldn't accuse himself for the boy's death. But he wanted to forget, not face them.

There was a hushed quiet in the briefing room; more than Meadows was used to as he got to his feet. Heaton, ever the Superintendent, moved over just enough to allow him room to talk, and the others were almost sitting to attention.

Without thinking, he looked for Mickey. The younger man – not young now, surely he had to be in his mid-thirties? - drew his gaze as easily as North draws a compass. Their relationship was much more distant now; he couldn't remember the last time they'd gone drinking together or talked about nothing in the office, but still, he couldn't help caring about him. Too many bonds, too many secrets.

There was no response or acknowledgement, so he carried on talking. Mickey was safe enough, after all, directly in front of him.

'I'm amazed that they're getting away with muscling into the territory they're covering...I know Roberts has a got a fair old reputation around here, and of course, Sharker seems to be living up to his name – Barton Street are convinced that he killed that fellow last month but they can't prove it.'

That was the problem, wasn't it? Proof. If it was down to him and Smithy and Mickey...they knew. But knowing and proving were too different. Besides, if they left it long enough...Smithy had been busy promoting the hope that maybe they'd piss off enough people to get killed; one that he shared but didn't think possible and certainly couldn't articulate.

Any killing here was liable to be on the other side.

A shifting movement in the seats ahead; Mickey shifting restlessly, likely too hot. It had been a long while since he'd been bothered by being in crowds.

He cleared his throat once, twice, not wanting to mention what he had to say next. Heaton's glare seemed to have an almost physical weight as he looked across – evidently, there was to be no getting out of this.

'Sharker's still got the breaker's yard over in Dagenham.'

Of course, that had been a long time ago; in a different world, and as he'd expected, Mickey didn't react to the name. He didn't react to much anymore.

'He's well known for taking on casual labour and the like. Several different people have been helping him out lately. With the selling, too, by all accounts.

'I' _you, Heaton, you_ 'think it would be a good idea to get someone down there, start helping out with the place. Maybe seeing what they can pick up.'

He'd only discussed it with Heaton, but Smithy was nodding as though it wasn't surprising. Perhaps the Sergeant had heard a whisper, or maybe he'd worked it out for himself. _He would have made a good CID man, wouldn't he? He never wanted it, though, always said it wasn't real work_ but he never said that when Mickey was in earshot _._

'You mean undercover, Guv?' Max Carter, looking interested for once.

 _Which is a damn good reason for not letting you near it_ – although the idea of a month or so without Max in the office was appealing.

'Yes.'

'In Dagenham?'

'Yes, Mickey,' and that was when he should have stopped, before Mickey's calm acceptance, because there was no going back from that.

'Oh, OK, then.'

Only it wasn't, and couldn't be, ever again.

Later, he thought it was one of the worst jobs he'd ever had: going back up to Heaton's office and telling him that Mickey had agreed. A short conversation, but it had the feeling of the world ending, a prophecy of doom for one or both of them.

'I gather you're not happy about this, Jack.'

He shrugged. 'Mickey...he doesn't really want to go to Dagenham. I don't think that he ought to go there.'

'But he agreed. He knows what's happening and why; he's done undercover work before and you didn't order him to do it, did you? He had a free choice.'

 _There's no free choice with us, is there? Never has been._ 'He did it because it was me asking, guv.'

Heaton looked down at his desk, straightening papers that didn't need it. 'Is it true you saved his life once?'

 _Sort of, I guess, and I'm still not sure that he'd thank me for doing it._ 'With respect, Sir, what happened between me and Mickey in the past is...is in the past. And it's private... I'm just not happy about him doing this.'

'I can't help that. I dare say he'll come back fine and with another good case on his record. He's young and he's good – there's no reason he couldn't go for promotion again. And don't forget that he was the one who wanted to do this.'

 _If I let Mickey do whatever he wanted to do, he would have killed himself a long time ago._ 'Okay.' The agreement felt like a lie.

'How long do you think it'll take him to get ready? Get everything sorted?'

'Four, five days.'

'That isn't long.'

'Long enough. Mickey's bright. Won't take him long to learn a cover story or anything like that. He's good.' _He's fantastic._

'Jack?'

 _What does he want?_ 'Yes?'

'If I asked...why Mickey is so important to you, would you tell me?'

 _How could I explain that? All the years and all the things we've done..._ 'No. Never.' _I don't know why he's so important to me._

Heaton nodded once and Meadows walked away. Down the corridor, Mickey was working patiently at his desk, head on one side and left arm folded protectively around whatever he was writing. The thought of the office without Mickey again – for however short a time – made his heart ache but he couldn't think about changing the set up now.


	2. Chapter 2

**CHAPTER ONE 11** **th** **November**

If he'd ever wondered what Mickey would look like when he got old, the answer was standing here in front of him. The blonde hair would fade to thin, wispy strands of pure snow, and his eyes would assume the translucent sheen of thin glass. His small frame would sink even further, until he was no higher than Jack's ribs.

 _No, he won't, will he... Because when he's this old, I won't be around._ The realisation was just as harsh as his realising as a child that, one day, his parents would leave him.

Shaking his head to chase away the thought, he concentrated on the man in front of him. Had Mickey told him his name? Damn, that was something he should have checked, but he'd been so sure that he'd read that email enough times to know what it said. And it had been too painful to look at over the past week.

The man was dressed in a blue dressing gown – the shade of blue that he always thought of as Mickey's colour – and worn trainers. One sole flapped loose, torn from the upper material, and he was wearing a gold coloured chain. Meadows couldn't tell for sure, but he thought that it had a pendent, probably a crucifix. _This is him, isn't it? Him like he will be when I'm gone and I'll never get to see._

 _Except...I don't want him to end up like this._ The stranger was skinny to the point of being emaciated, and the tiny flat reeked of poverty. He wondered how long it had been since the man had had a proper meal, or heated the flat through properly. He guessed a long while.

'What do you want?'

Again, listening to that voice was like listening to Mickey talking to him from the future. Almost identical, but he thought the old man had a slightly stronger accent.

'Mickey...' And his voice trailed off; he wasn't sure what he did want. Should he have given Mickey's name away? No, because there wouldn't have been any point, would there; not like he would have been able to fool his own family with a different name.

'Mickey?'

'He told me that he was going to be here tonight. Asked me to meet him. Last week, he left me a message...'

'Oh, yeah?' The man shifted, from leaning against the doorframe to standing properly, and then turned. Every movement was slow and deliberate, as though he doubted if his muscles would react.

He'd seen Mickey move like that, once. Sometimes still did, in nightmares.

'You'd best come in, then.'

On a level he wouldn't admit to, he'd been expecting Mickey to be here. The DC had never lied to him before; omitted things or glossed them over, yes, but never lied. Yet...he'd known, ever since the emails had stopped coming, that something was wrong. He'd travelled over in blind hope, and this wasn't a surprise, or shouldn't be. But it hurt and worried him, nonetheless.

He stayed a couple of paces behind the old man, careful not to try and help him as he shuffled along. Perhaps this was where Mickey had inherited his fierce pride and determination. They went into a tiny front room where the smell of damp was an almost physical presence in the air. The seat that the man waved him to was damp to the touch, and he guessed he must live in the bedroom and kitchen, rather than bothering to heat the whole flat.

 _Please, God, don't let Mickey end up like this._

 _Please, God, let him still be around somewhere._

The old man settled himself into an armchair that looked vast compared to him, as though it might swallow him up. He kicked off his trainers and tucked his bare feet up, under the dressing gown, before staring at Meadows. 'You want Mickey?'

'Yes. I'm...a friend of his. From work.'

He immediately realised that he'd said the wrong thing; the man looked quizzically at him. 'You don't look like the kind of man to be working filling the shelves at the shop, Mister.'

 _Damn, I knew I should have changed. I just wanted to see him again, that was all. Didn't think._ He tugged absently at his tie, straightening it.

'Look, if the lad's done something wrong and you're a copper come to pick him up, then you don't want to be looking at me. I ain't seen the boy for years, and then he turns up on my doorstep a couple of months ago. See him once a week for a bit, and now I ain't seen him for ten days or so.'

 _Ten days...Where are you, Mick? What's happened to you?_

'What's your name, Sir?' _Let him think I'm a copper, then. It won't hurt._

'I'm Joseph Marshall. Mickey's Grandad.'

 _Rita's dad, then...no wonder you live like this_ and he felt as much sympathy for this man as for his grandson. _But why weren't you at the funeral then, if she was yours? Why didn't Mickey ever mention you?_

'Honestly, whatever Mickey's up to, he's nothing to do with me. I dare say that he was only sniffing about cos I've been ill, looking to see if he was in for anything when I snuff it. Dare say he got disappointed and sodded off somewhere else. I really can't help you.'

Interesting...he was used to people being nervous when he interviewed them, but this man was only resigned. Maybe he didn't care what happened to him. Maybe he was used to being interviewed. 'I doubt it, Sir. Mickey isn't like that.'

Joseph folded his arms across his chest. 'Look, Mister, you look like a good bloke...If Mickey's been saying that he's going to sell you something or whatever, I wouldn't listen. That one's more trouble than he's worth. Who are you?'

'My name's Jack. I'm just a friend of his.'

'Look, if you want, I've got a phone number for him. He wrote it down and put it somewhere a few weeks ago.'

Despite himself, Meadows felt his heart rate raise with anticipation. Maybe the mobile number that Heaton wouldn't let him have...maybe Mickey's clever solution to making sure that someone could find him. He must have known that Meadows would have come looking for him in the end.

'I'll get it for you, but...I don't want any trouble afterwards, understand? You take it up with him, whatever he's done, and leave me the Hell alone.' Joseph pushed himself to his feet and from the other side of the room, started rummaging through a chest. A few sheets of notepaper and tattered photos drifted out; one was a black and white portrait of a grinning boy that he was sure was Mickey.

'There won't be any trouble, I promise. I just want to speak to him.'

'Huh. You and the rest of the world.' With a grunt of effort, he extracted another piece of paper and unfolded it. 'This is it. Not that he ever answers, mind.All I get is the poxy answer phone, and he never calls back.'

 _I want to talk to him. I need to know that he's alright._

 _What does he mean about the rest of the world?_

Meadows tried not to let his hand tremble as he reached for the piece of paper and unfolded it; tried not to let hope reach him and knew that he'd failed as the hot and bitter taste of disappointment flooded his mouth. It was Mickey's home number, although he was surprised that Joseph hadn't noticed the Sun Hill code, as opposed to Dagenham.

'What's the problem, Mister?'

'It's...That's his old number.'

'Ah. That explains why the bugger never answers, doesn't it? I think you'd best go then, because he isn't coming around here tonight. It's nearly eleven.'

He hadn't realised that it was getting so late. 'Please, if he does come round, tell him that Jack called. He'll know who I am.'

'You're too good a person to go getting mixed up with him, Mister. Last few times he's been round here, he's been off his head with the drink, and...last time...'

 _Drink? I shouldn't have let you do this, Mick. Whatever Heaton says, I knew you couldn't do this._ 'What happened last time then?'

'You're a copper, aren't you?'

Meadows nodded. Joseph Marshall had the world weary air of someone who had seen enough police over the years to know them when he saw them. 'Yes. DCI.'

The old man nodded sagely, chewed on his lower lip for a while. 'I thought so. I did nine years, back a long. You still recognise it when you see it.'

 _You never told me that, Mick. It wasn't until a month ago that I knew you had a grandad, let alone a copper. And why doesn't he know about you? I suppose he would have served during the war, wouldn't he? He's old enough, I guess._

'He's my grandson and I loved him, but he's his dad all over again, that one. And he's mixing with some bad people at the moment. Last time he came here, he was covered in blood. Dived in my shower and said that he'd been in a car smash and got cut, but... However he got hurt, it weren't his car, cos he told me he never had one.'

 _Mickey..._ The name in his mind was urgent, almost a scream.

'I think he'd beat someone else up,' and Joseph shrugged. 'I'm sure he did, but he's my blood... You need to get hold of him, DCI whoever. He's bad news even if he is my lad.'

He couldn't find it in himself to argue. The walk out from the little flat to his car felt like miles, and a passing driver had to stand on his brakes to avoid him, as he wandered across the road without looking. Joseph's watery blue eyes were fixed on him across the street, an uncomfortable sensation that made him want to look around.

 _Mickey...how could you? Mickey, are you alright?_

The Dagenham air, full of rain and the cold chill of November, didn't have any answers for him. The only noises were the slap of his feet on the damp tarmac and the muttering that he wasn't even aware of.

'Mickey, are you OK? What's happened to you?'


	3. Chapter 3

**12** **th** **November**

The concrete was cold on his back; the chill eating through several layers of clothes as well as the newspapers that he'd been given and shoved down the inside of his shirt. No matter how he shifted, it hurt.

He half opened one eye; the shop front he was lying in was running with rain water that formed a stream around him. Although it was dyed a mixture of colours by the shop front lights and the traffic, he could see the ribbon of blood in it. A thin thread, oozing away and diffusing in the water.

It made him feel sick, although he guessed that was hunger. Or maybe he needed another drink. He'd been drinking...how much? A lot.

Was that his blood? He shifted again, a couple of times, and couldn't find any position that hurt more than another. Funny...there was no pain at all now he was concentrating on it, and that was the first time in a long while that had happened. Perhaps this was actually a good thing.

Hands? He glanced down; a little movement that made his head swim and saw that his hands were grossly swollen. Especially his right – it looked distorted, twisted; bruises showed like storm clouds on the red and white skin.

 _What the hell have I done? God, Jack, what have I done?_

Jack? Where had that name come from? Deep down in memory, buried like a lot of other names and faces. Suddenly, the hand was a mass of pain; he curled into a ball, cradling it against his chest. It felt like a fireball.

After a while, he became aware that the noise he could hear was his own teeth, colliding with each other as his whole body convulsed with the cold. Was it cold? He wanted a drink...he wanted the blood to go away – he couldn't see, but he guessed it was still flowing away from his body – and he wanted, more than anything, for it to get light. It never seemed so bad in the daylight.

Time passed. Not slowly, but leaping in fits and starts, so that he guessed he was blacking out sometimes. The hand didn't stop hurting, and now his head was spinning. The voices in his head were loud and unpleasant; most of them seemed to have a Yorkshire accent, but another was calm and cultured and snidey.

Terrier? No, he wasn't a dog, whatever the voice said, although he was laying here like one.

Surrogate? There wasn't even a meaning associated with that word, but it stung. Felt like a whiplash across his mind, one that he tried to wriggle away from but was too weak to do so. Fever dreams stalked him for a long while, troubling and frightening, but the hand hurt so bad.

A phone rung; without properly waking, he fumbled in his jeans pocket for it, brushing his fingers against the denim. He awoke to the sound of his own scream, to find himself sitting up with head resting on his knees, and rocking himself. Immediately, he cradled his right hand under the three t-shirts he was wearing, pressing the dead but still protesting skin against the comforting warmth of his own heart beat.

Even that was juddering. Stopping, maybe.

The ringing mobile wasn't his, and it took him a while to realise that he could almost see the shops on the other side of the street. Like monstrous creatures seen through the haze of nightmares, there were outlines and shapes that almost resembled what they actually were. This was the third...fourth...no, somewhere beyond counting, night that he'd spent on the streets, and he'd already learnt that he needed to be on the move before full light.

This morning, he didn't want to move. Couldn't. What had happened yesterday, last night? There had been a fight, a big one, he remembered that, but it had been a while ago. And some brawls, that he'd had to fight in because...There had been an element of compulsion there, he was sure.

None of this was anything he would have done of his own free will, was it? The Yorkshire voice in his head again, saying 'This isn't the man that you used to be,' and repeating itself constantly. Why that voice?

Without thinking about it, he wanted to respond to it. It was safe, friendly, and he rolled over on the tarmac, trying to reach the sound of the voice. It sounded like a bandage would feel on his hand; like a hug. No-one was there, but the voice kept talking to him. 'This isn't you. You're not like this, Mick.'

Another jump in time, and when he looked around, it was grey. A solid mist had landed around him as he slept, and now there was no chance of seeing the shops on the other side. Sighing, he forced his way to his feet and stood there for a moment; there was blood pooled where he'd been lying; it lay like oil on the water.

It was the 12th today, a headline on a newspaper reminded him. Last night...ages ago, he'd arranged to do something last night. He'd made it a promise, that however bad things got, he wouldn't forget it. And now he had.

The backpack shifted across his spine, the unequal straps swaying as he walked. At least it was light and getting lighter; by the end of the day, it would be empty. The clanging noise of the cans reminded him that at least he could have a drink today, and that was good. Tomorrow...it had the hazy appearance of the fever dreams he'd had last night, unreal but still possessing the power to terrify.

Swallowing, or trying to, he admitted that he was ill. Too ill to be out here, anyway.

It started to drizzle; he huddled into the coat, missing his leather jacket. Leather jacket? That seemed to come from a different lifetime; to have belonged to a different man. After a while, he stopped and sat on a bench, wondering where to go.

Dagenham divided here; off to his left were the places he didn't dare go. He half expected the monsters to be coming up the street now, with the rest of the early morning traffic. A HGV on delivery duties halted alongside his bench; the driver and mate both looked at him as they went around to the tailgate, but their eyes flicked over him.

He felt invisible. Divorced from the world, with only the pain and the fear real. The Yorkshire voice, now muttering meaningless strings of words, kept him company. Somehow, it reminded him of betrayal, and he was worried that it would soon leave. It always did.

A/N – Although this was written a few years ago now, I distinctly remember the circumstances. Suffering from swine flu will induce a desire to make someone else feel just as miserable as you do, even if that someone's a fictional character.


	4. Chapter 4

Jack didn't like eating in the car, but he'd stayed so late in Dagenham last night that he hadn't actually returned home. The bacon roll from an all night van was the nearest he was going to get to breakfast this morning. And the grease was good; he felt that he was going down with a cold, and his throat was almost seized up. Perhaps it was fear.

 _Stupid bastard, parking there._ Muttering to himself, through a mouthful of roll, he parked next to his designated space and did his customary check for Mickey's car. It had been over a third of a year since it had been there, but...Habit and longing kept him scanning the car park and killed a little bit of him every day, when it wasn't there.

 _Perhaps he's coming in late,_ and he couldn't even manage a smile at that idea. Of course he wouldn't come in late. He wouldn't come in at all.

The station was bustling, full of life. Of course, it was November now, and people were huddling inside as much as possible. Several uniform men glanced at him as he went by; all people who ought to be out on patrol. Given the weather, he couldn't blame them. And none of them were at all concerned or grieved: why should they be?

 _After they sent Burnside away like that, I promised myself that it wouldn't happen again. I wouldn't lie to them all like that._ Jim Carver's face, when he'd come into work and found only an empty desk where Burnside used to lurk, had been enough to convince him of that. And now... _It's exactly the same, isn't it? Still, at least I know and Heaton knows some of it, and I dare say Smithy worked it all out. Someone needs to remember him._

'Are you alright, Sir?'

Smithy's voice drifted over from the other side of the CID office; he straightened up from Stevie's desk, where he'd been leafing through some sheets of paper. He hadn't got used to seeing him in Inspector's uniform yet... _Mickey would have a good laugh at that, wouldn't he? Would have thought it was as likely as West Ham winning the league, and he would have said it, and they would have argued over it and gone out drinking..._

'Fine.'

'Was there something on last night?' Smithy looked at him, up and down, assessing.

Meadows felt that he knew how an animal at market might feel, being stared at and measured. 'No. Just the normal nightshift in, was all. Neil did a bit of overtime; he's got a court case coming up. Nothing else. Why?'

 _Should have done what Mickey used to, and kept a change of clothes here. Smithy's too observant for his own good, and he doesn't think that you've spent the night out on the tiles, does he?_

'Is Mickey alright?' Direct, blunt and there was something knowing in Smithy's eyes.

He wanted to cry. Three months...dear God, three months without Mickey, and he didn't know where he'd gone. 'I don't know. Haven't seen him. You know that.'

'What happened to him, then? Has he retired, or gone off, or what?'

Aside from himself, the DC didn't have any real friends here, so most people had accepted him going of undercover without doubt. He'd been the only one who'd laid awake at night, worrying and grieving. Smithy...he wasn't sure about him.

'Nothing. Leave it, Smithy.' He slammed the door to his office shut, aware that Smithy was looking at him in bemusement, and set the computer up. _Please let him have emailed or something...Anything._

There wasn't anything. No messages from Mickey Webb, or Wynn Johnson; nothing on the facebook account that Mickey had shown him how to set up and been so insistent that he check everyday. And of course, no phone messages. Was this how Mickey had felt when he'd gone to MIT and Jack hadn't contacted him?

He guessed that it must be, and he hated the realisation. Surely, Mickey didn't mean to hurt him like this.

The hours passed slowly for him, almost as slowly as they did for Mickey as he staggered his way along the Dagenham street. Instead of working, Jack switched between the emails and facebook and his phone, and managed to convince himself every time that there would be something there now.

In the end, he recognised the spluttering noise of Heaton's car – _Why doesn't he get a new one, I'm sure he can afford it –_ and headed up to the Superintendent's office, so that he was waiting there when the ginger haired man finally arrived. He guessed he must have been speaking to someone. _Please let it be Mickey. Please._

'Morning, Jack.'

'Morning.' He slipped into the office before Heaton could close the door, aware that the Superintendent didn't want to speak to him. They'd been avoiding each other; or at least, Heaton had been avoiding him. Probably wise enough, given the arguments they'd had over this case, but irritating.

'What do you want, Jack?' There was a resigned note to his voice, as though he was aware of where this conversation was headed.

'Mickey Webb.'

'Oh.' Heaton fussed around his office, opening the window a crack, rearranging notes and his laptop on the desk, all the while not looking at Meadows. 'You know I can't tell you anything about that. We already discussed it a fortnight ago, remember?'

And a fortnight ago, he'd been able to agree, turn away and leave Mickey to his fate. But now...there had been another fortnight of silence and Mickey not at his Grandad's house. And, now, the image that had haunted him the most – Mickey blood stained, hurting, afraid. Even if it meant losing his job, he was prepared to fight for him. Fight for his friend.

'Have you heard anything about him? From him?'

'Jack, you know I'm working as his handler, and the Borough Commander's on to this. You just don't need to know what's happening with it – you could jeopardise the entire case.'

'Fuck the case! This is Mickey Webb we're talking about, and I need to know how he is. What he's doing.'

'Jack...' Heaton got to his feet and advanced round the table, one hand extended in a gesture of peace.

Meadows slapped his hand away, relishing the moment of contact. How dare he have put Mickey at risk like that? 'I'm not happy with this. We need to...To...' _I need to get him out of there, don't I? To bring him home._

Heaton, apparently pretending not to notice his outburst, retreated back to his side of the desk and sat down. 'Why is there a problem? He's done undercover work before – you were the one who told me that he did a good job on that football hooligan case, years back. If it wasn't for that, I would have been looking at Terry or someone to do this.'

 _I wanted you to think that he'd done enough, not that he was OK to do some more._

'Plus...he's a good copper, been doing some outstanding work lately. He's interested in football, he's got some of his coaching badges...and it was his neck of the woods, so what's the problem?'

 _Mickey...you're always my damn problem, aren't you?_ 'He never wanted to do this, Sir.'

Heaton raised his eyebrows. 'But he agreed. He's been working on this for a while, hasn't he? Ever since that first boy died, so it isn't like he didn't know what he was getting into. He knew.'

'He agreed because it was me asking him to do it. He didn't have a choice. I told you that.'

A snort of derision from Heaton, who would never understand what they shared with each other. He remembered Mickey hurtling his way down a muddy slope just so that he could reach the dead body first and spare Jack from that sight; not because he'd been asked but because he had a free choice.

When it had come to this, Mickey had had as much free choice as he'd done on all those nights during Delaney's trial when he'd sat holding and talking to him. Even ignoring the difference in their ranks, Mickey couldn't ignore a request from him.

'He'd do anything he thought I wanted him to, Sir.'

'Jack?'

For a moment, he made eye contact with his superior. 'Yes, Sir?'

'OK...Look, I know it's been three months since you've seen him, but he's fine. I heard from him a while back. Sent his report in, like I told him to.'

 _How long ago was that? Mick, tell me you haven't kept in touch with him and not me._ 'When was that?'

'A month...five weeks. He'll come back fine, I promise you. It was what he wanted to do.' With one swift movement, Heaton stood, opened the door and turned back to look at Meadows.

 _And if I let Mickey do what he wanted to, he would have killed himself a long time ago. I shouldn't have got him to do this._

'I'll let you know next time I hear from him. And, Jack, mind what you say next time. Consider this a warning about conduct, would you?'

Once, that warning would have horrified him. Now, he considered the old man at Dagenham and the idea of Mickey being hurt and nodded and forgot what Heaton had said. Tomorrow...if he couldn't find Mickey tonight, he'd have to have another go at Heaton tomorrow.

The emails, phone and Facebook remained silent.

A/N - Apologies for the long delay in updates - new job stresses. But all sorted now.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N – A long chapter this time, comprised of two spliced together. The second half was the first section of the whole thing written, about 5 years ago.

Now, he had a serious problem. He was out of money, had been for a couple of days, but now, there was nothing left to drink. Eat. He meant there was nothing left to eat. The lack of drink wasn't a problem. Of course it wasn't. There would be water somewhere.

Food.

The places for getting food were limited. Dagenham was still enemy territory, with the one area that he dared not enter. Perhaps if Jack was there to lead him over the threshold...No, not even then. Joseph's house, but right now, coppers were the enemy. No money.

For a while, he ghosted his way down a warren of streets and thought about begging. About sitting, subservient and helpless, within reach of any man passing by...begging people to stop. He couldn't remember why, but he knew the sharp taste of terror when he experienced it, and he abandoned that idea. 'Good,' that nameless voice told him. 'Good. Keep yourself safe.'

Hunger. He kept calling it that, because it was less shameful, but he didn't think he was really hungry. He was too feverish to eat, and his hands too painful. Besides, he wanted a drink.

He walked until his legs were threatening to give way, then headed into a shop. A general one, selling bits of everything, and nothing that he needed. Looked at the newspapers while fumbling in his pocket, trying to look at his mobile, so that no-one noticed the chocolate bar he took. Made a show of not finding the paper and turned away with a resigned face, not daring to look at the painkillers and drink cans.

Walked away and kept on walking, until he found another bench and sat down. One square was all he could eat; the rest would have to last.

 _I'm sorry._

'I'm disappointed in you,' the Yorkshire voice accused.

He tried to taste the chocolate, but his throat was too sore and all he tasted was sand papery pain and dryness. _I was hungry._

'You shouldn't have done it.'

 _But...I'm so hungry...I'm sorry._

The voice, the presence, left.

With the rain, he didn't even notice that he was crying. Someone heard him muttering under his breath and crossed the road, dragging their daughter with them, and left him there, alone with the ghosts.

17th November

Mickey half watched the tiny, stick thin man shambling along in front of him. He'd been around a few times over the past few days – weeks – however long it had been; never talking, never looking at anyone. He was colourless, hidden in too big clothes that had been washed too many times or maybe just worn for too long. Yellow-white bristles of stubble stuck up from his cheeks like needles.

 _Once, I don't think I would have gone near him. Only to nick him or something...maybe to see if he'd heard anything because that sort always do, don't they? That sort..._ He remembered, too vividly, Don Beech arresting a homeless man on some sort of charge that none of them, not even Don, really believed, and how Don's lips had curled back with distaste when he'd had to touch the man.

Hot water, hot enough to wash away all of his sins, and soap – he'd made almost as much fuss about washing as Don had. _Guess that's exactly how they'd treat me now, ain't it, and I'd deserve it. That sort...this sort..._

The elderly man seemed to feel his regard; he half turned and looked back at him. 'You alright?'

His voice was weak, soft, with a disconcerting fluidy sound as though his mouth was full of water. No active dislike or fear, and that was as good, as rare, as a friendly greeting.

'Yeah.' Too caught between lies and the truth, he wasn't sure how to continue. _Stick to the story, I guess... Least that way, it's only going to be... no, no-one knows, who knows who I am, not anyone else. And Joseph...Might as well lie to all of them, make it fairer._

The man came closer; halted about fifty yards away and stared across at him. One eye was milky white. 'You new here?'

'Yes,' and even that helped; it was better, so much better to be answering someone else's questions and not having to think. Easier to be dominated. _Never was meant to be a leader, was I?_

 _Should I tell him my name?_ He couldn't help remembering some old story he'd once read, where names were important and true names told only to lovers and children. Couldn't face introducing himself.

'Got anything on you?'

He didn't want to agree, although he'd stolen and brought a couple of bits yesterday, learning that there were often coins scattered on the pavement or near shop doors if you didn't mind the stares of others. Little shops were the best, where people brought milk or a paper and handed over spare change instead of buying by card. He'd got used to the idea of collecting; got used to the idea of thieving because it was better than being hungry.

 _If I say yes, he's going to want to share and I ain't got enough for that. This is mine...mine, and I need it._ The increasing pace of his heart was actually painful as he thought about the packet of biscuits and the...the lager. He'd regretted paying for it, but at the same time, needed it. Needed it.

'No. Sorry,' and he hated himself for lying.

'Shame. Coulda done with a smoke,' and that almost lessened the guilt because that was something he'd never done, never had, so it wasn't quite so much of a lie.

He wanted to carry on talking, reluctant to lose even the illusion of companionship that he'd been granted, but the old man decided the conversation was at an end and walked away.

He'd trailed people before, back in his previous life; managed it on foot and in cars. Some of it was still there. Following the old man was easy enough, although he was so slow that he had to dawdle; pretending to look at the price of things in shops that wouldn't let him through the doors. God knows, he'd run off enough homeless before, in the guise of public order or drunkenness or whatever- far fewer since he'd made CID of course, but still plenty of people he'd treated as less than human.

Down most of the length of one street, where a bus thundered past the pair of them and a teenage girl with peroxide hair shouted at them both, her skin bright orange under the lights. Across a couple of cut-throughs that he didn't recognise; one of them between the Regal Cinema and an Iceland shop with another building above their heads. Their footsteps echoed and doubled; the old man glanced back.

He shrugged and carried on walking, pulling his hat further down around his ears, but he was walking with the gait of someone headed towards a definite goal. Mickey followed, less carefully now.

The building was in the centre of a housing street, towering above them. Half warehouse, half town hall, it managed to look impressive and welcoming at the same time – he'd seen it often enough when he was younger. There had been meetings and picnics there sometimes; enough so he'd had the vague sense it belonged to Dagenham as a whole rather than to the Church.

He approached it with something close to confidence; the first time in ages that he hadn't shied away from something unknown. _Suppose if I go home and everything's familiar, that might be better. Wouldn't have to be afraid...only, I can't do that._

Food smells were so thick in the building that his mouth watered.

The old man let himself through another door that creaked shut behind him; another man strode over and stood close to him. He was just inside the first door, the thin wind still reaching him through the cracks.

'What do you want?'

There was real aggression and dislike in the man's voice; enough so that cold sweat sprang out all over Mickey's body. _Can't get away...anyone here's going to know those lanes and alleys better than me, ain't they?_

'I said, who the fucking hell are you?'

The man advanced; he was taller than Mickey, thickset, with bushy hair the colour of steel. His pupils were uneven.

 _Drugged. Shit,_ and Mickey backed up as much as he could. _Be safer to go out backwards, not look away from him or anything. Just run or something, if I can. Hide,_ and that sounded like a better idea than running had done. _Can't really run far now, can I? Hurts..._

 _Jack would hate me if he knew,_ and that was probably the clearest thought he'd had since bolting away from the last fight with the knife still held in his hand.

'Oi, Parry! Leave it!' That was another man's voice, rough and harsh with the expectation of command. He'd been standing behind a counter and moved out now, wearing a shirt and tie although the overall effect was spoilt by a tatty pair of jeans and trainers that had seen better days.

'He's just walked in here! Walked in off o' the street an' we don't know who he is.'

Hysteria. He didn't like the edge in the man's voice, the hint that it was going to change to violence any minute. Some of the others – there were about a dozen in the room, most of them sitting huddled over canteen tables – were tense. _Maybe they're used to him...maybe they've seen him do this before._

'Parry, shut up. You did just the same when you came here,' and he stood between Parry and Mickey. The rest of them went back to eating, while the old man he'd followed came back in from whatever the sideroom was and settled into what appeared to be his accustomed seat.

'I'm Jacob Edinski. Deputy manager here – which is a good way of saying I get all the hassle of running this place without any of the benefits, like having a decent wage or being allowed to go to the council meetings where they serve lunch. Boss does all that.'

He couldn't help smiling; the man gave off an air of calm acceptance and enjoyment of life. 'I'm Wynn,' he left off the surname. It was there in the manual they'd concocted; an important part of his disguise if he needed it, but he'd never actually used it. Wasn't sure, now, that he could remember it.

'Good to meet you, Wynn. How did you find us?' There was no hint of condescending in his voice; it was as though they'd met at a game or something and were going through the motions of polite talk.

He gestured towards the wizened figure of the old man, who was bolting down a plate of soup.

'Oh, Bluey brought you along, did he?'

'No. I was just...just um, followed him here. Thought he might know somewhere but...yeah, followed...' and he didn't think that the truth sounded very good. Made him sound weak, maybe desperate. _Although that's mainly true, so why should I be so ashamed of it?_

There was something like understanding in Jacob's eyes. 'That's alright. Least you've had the sense to get here pretty quick. Wouldn't believe how long it takes some of them to find us – they're half starved and going crazy.'

 _That's me, he's just described me but he thinks I've done something right, so I guess this will do. Good to do something right..._

Jacob pivoted, calling out 'Nouska, can you keep an eye on em for me? Just gonna talk to Wynn for a bit. Make sure you turn the ovens down a bit in a few minutes, will you? This lot don't want to be eating burnt offerings in addition to everything else. C'mon, Wynn, over here.'

There were three chairs scattered around a battered table in the far corner of the room, far enough away to give the illusion of privacy. He was relieved they were still in this room, instead of through one of the doors – he still didn't want to be alone with a stranger, no matter how much he wanted to trust Jacob.

'Sit down, will you? No feet on the table.' Jacob winked at him and did just that, crossing his ankles and resting his feet on one corner of the table. A few old papers slid to the floor.

It was almost a relief to sit somewhere that wasn't tarmac or a bench dripping with rain, even though the chair creaked under his weight. And taking his pack off, laying alongside him without having to keep watch, was a blessing.

Still, he couldn't bring himself to speak. What if he said the wrong thing or did something wrong and even this was taken away? _Or if the others – that bastard Parry or the guy I followed here – don't like me? Do I get run out? Maybe Sharker's been here, told them to look out for me._

He'd known, in the past, drop-in centres that worked more closely with the underworld than anything else. Places where gang men had the power, and if this was one of those, then it would be better to keep silent.

'We can feed you most days. Breakfast on weekends but early, cos we have to work on the services, and dinner's here most days. There's no showers, no beds, but you can get a wash in the bogs, no-one's gonna say anything if you're in there washing. We ain't got anything else but it's warm and there's plenty of seats. Any questions?'

'P-Parry?' The apprehension came through in his voice, even though he tried to hide it.

'Is doped up again. Technically, Boss says no-one's allowed in if they've been drinking or on something, but he ain't the one who has to throw 'em out. If the weather's crap and they're being quiet, I let them in. If he's around tomorrow, I'll give him a meal and a bollocking. If not, he'll be so busy freezing his arse off that he won't remember what was said here. Figure you'll be alright.'

'An' and...what's this place called?'

A genuine smile in response. 'At the last check, it was the Quarry but it's probably something else now. Kinda long story – you'll hear it soon enough, I dare say.'

He nodded heavily. 'And I – I can come here when I need to?' _Cos I can't see any way out of this, so I guess I'm here for the long haul now, aren't I? Better than nicking stuff._

'Often as you need. Once a day, mind, and we're not always open, but...Just don't give the cooks any grief. None of us ever went looking for a career as a chef, so don't blame us if it tends to go off the rails sometimes. You don't look the type to give us hassle, mind.'

'I won't,' and it came out as scarcely a whisper. Just a promise of good behaviour, and he wasn't even sure he could keep it, because he hardly knew himself anymore.

'Good. C'mon, come get some grub before the gannets have it all. They won't give you any hassle – I don't think most of them even talk. That's one thing here – there's not a lot of conversation. It's good to actually speak with someone for a bit.'

Jacob found him a space on a table with a young girl – young, but looking so tired – and another man. Neither of them looked at him, but Jacob brought over some bread and soup, promised that there'd be chicken and chips later. _I think I could trust him._ It was enough.


	6. Chapter 6

A/N – So, it's been far too long since I updated. I could give you excuses, but instead I'll give you a name. He was called Tim. He was the first person to ever read something I'd written. He was my teacher for 5 years, my first reader for 16 years, one of my truest friends and this gap between chapters is the gap between the time this world had him and the time cancer won him away. Losing him like that took away every part of my desire to write, to think of stories he'll never hear.

He was a very good man and I have stepped away from my writing long enough. But it is hard, so very hard, to find my way back.

The phone rung when he was asleep; for a long while, he thought that it was part of a dream, one that carried on while he fought his way back to consciousness. Was it late or early in the morning? Meadows wasn't sure; he'd gone to bed early because it was either sleep or lay there awake, worrying about Mickey.

Blinking, he saw that it was almost midnight. Earlier than he'd dared to hope, but the phone was still ringing. Mickey? Surely not, and any emergency calls from the station would have gone through to his mobile. Sighing, he reached out and grabbed the receiver; the cold air of his room stung against his bare skin.

'Mickey?' The name was there before he could help himself. Who else but Mickey would ring now?

Silence on the other end of the phone for a while, then a weary old voice that he recognised at once. Joseph.

'I guess you were right, then, Mister Meadows. You are close to him if someone rings you at midnight and your mind jumps to him.'

'Have you heard anything?'

'Look, maybe. A guy at church today says he's been going there lately, for some food and that.'

'What do you mean? Church?' And then something clicked in his mind; a realisation that he would have made sooner if he'd been awake. Mickey was living rough. Was homeless and lost, back in his hometown. Alone.

'I think he's living rough but...he's going there a couple of times a week. Every Monday and Thursday.'

Sunday today, yesterday...whatever. Dawn would bring Monday and Mickey. That was okay, then.

'Why did you call me?'

Another long silence. The old man's breathing wheezed its way down the phone line. A hitching sound, like something dying.

'Because you're a copper, Mr. Meadows, and that's what my boy needs. A copper. And you're not from around here, so it's better for everyone. I won't get the flak from it. Are ya gonna go see him?'

'Yes,' and there was a weight to his answer. 'This morning.'

 _He needs a friend, you blind old fool. He needs his bloody family to look after him, not try and get him arrested. What did he ever do to you that you all hate him so much?_

'And don't go telling him it was me who told you – I don't want him round here causing hassle. But look after him...he's family.'

He'd never heard the man sound so much like Mickey as in those last two words.

He took down all the contact details, willing his hand not to tremble. Still, the writing meandered across the page.

'I won't. Thank you.'

He hung up and listened to the silence for a long while. In the darkness of his room, there were black shadows and patterns, dancing when he looked into the corners and disfiguring everything that he thought he knew.

 _Homeless? How the fuck can you be homeless, Mick?_ They'd sat together, hunched over Mickey's laptop in the room downstairs, both of them laughing as they looked at property websites when they'd first realised that the job was turning into a reality. Mickey, being Mickey, had pulled up lists of mansions and townhouses; he'd mentioned something about one of them being big enough to barbecue in, and they'd made plans. Stupid, outlandish, when we win the lottery plans and the key word in all of them had been together. We'll do it together.

Finally, when the already knackered fan had started to whine in protest, they'd settled on a one bed, self contained flat on the ground floor. Shared rooms had been cheaper, but he'd known, in that way they had sometimes, that Mickey wouldn't allow it.

So, he knew exactly what housing Mickey had.

 _What's happened down there? What have you done – stopped paying the rent and got kicked out? That's nothing, Mick, nothing...I'd pay it for you even if it wasn't a case you're on. Why haven't you got in touch with me? What's happened to the Two Musketeers?_

That had been Jo's name for their gang, not theirs, but it had stuck. Mickey, in particular, had found it funny.

And then, a thought that he wouldn't even admit to; something – perhaps the only thing – that he could never share with Mickey. _If this case is screwed up because of what he's done, Heaton is going to kill me._

At least he's alive. He's alive.

A yawn threatened to crack his jaws. God, he was tired and not having Mickey around was disorientating. Always, in the past, when something was bothering him, he could have phoned Mickey and discussed it. It didn't matter that he'd only done that once or twice in all the years they'd shared; what mattered was that it had been possible, and now it wasn't.

Get light, get light, he muttered to himself and the dark sky outside. For a while, he tried to concentrate on other things – playing a computer game, but that was one of Mickey's pastimes, reading a three day old paper that he hadn't chucked away yet. The third time that he reached the end of an article without remembering what it was about, he gave up and turned to playing music. Tiredness stung his eyes, but he didn't dare lie down.

 _I'll see him, won't I? He'll be there in my dreams, wondering why I didn't protect him or stop all this from happening, for getting him into all this in the first place. I should have made Heaton listen to me, shouldn't I._

How long had it been since he'd listened to music? Since almost four months ago, obviously, because this was one of the CDs that Mickey had played that last night. He'd pleaded, begged, to be allowed to take at least some music with him. After insisting and supervising the handover of all his documents, and files, his car, the too distinctive leather jacket and almost everything else that Mickey treasured, he hadn't had the heart to argue about the music.

It had all come back here.

There had been a heat wave in August, and the full moon had hung, heavy and sullen like a pregnant whale, scarcely dragging itself over the tower blocks. Late nights had brought some peace, but everyone had been too hot and touchy, looking for fights.

Except Mickey. Even though Jolan had died in front of him, he'd been happy enough. Except...it wasn't normal, was it? Like he was high or something, because everything had been funny to him that evening, and Meadows had laughed along with him. Sharing the fevered and fragile laughter of people who knew they might not have much longer to share it.

Two condemned men.

They'd sorted out the paperwork, arguing without anger.

'Jack, please! I ain't got that many bloody documents to start with.'

'Well, you need everything.'

'You really think they're gonna check my bleeding TV licence?'

He'd taken the relevant piece of paper from Mickey, whose constant folding and refolding was threatening to turn it into an origami piece. 'They won't, but someone from the BBC might.'

'You're fussing,' and Mickey's voice was more wondering than accusing. 'Stop it.'

'There's your Doctor's records, your driver's licence, library membership-'

'I ain't been near a library in years.'

'Bank account and phone contract,' and in the end, Mickey had given in and taken everything.

Together, they'd cleaned out Mickey's flat. He'd refused to throw anything away; Meadows had ended up with two carrier bags of food, but at least he'd been able to throw out the alcohol while Mickey was padlocking the windows shut. Then, both of them working topless in the breathless heat, they'd cleaned the flat right through and packed what Mickey was allowed to take.

It had been too hot to eat or sleep; they'd come back here because it was the only place left with a TV set. And, looking back... _he always did come here when he was worried, didn't he?_

They'd sat and talked while what seemed like every dog in Sun Hill had been turned moon crazy and howled at the sky. It hadn't got properly dark, and when dawn came far too early, Mickey had stood up and smiled ruefully across at him.

'So long, Jack.'

'So long, Wynn.'

Mickey had shook his head, a gesture that Meadows had felt more than seen. 'No.'

'What?'

'If I'm not gonna see you again, I want my proper name. Don't call me that.'

He should have remembered, from the time when he'd taken to calling himself Michael. Names were too important for that casual changing, even if Wynn meant 'Friend' and that was something he'd be proud to call Mickey. 'OK. Good luck, Mickey. Take care.'

He'd wanted to hug the younger man but he'd known that if he had done, Mickey would never have left. It was easier to watch him walk down to the new car, his two plastic carrier bags of belongings swinging against his legs. He'd been laughing and the sun had ruffled though his blonde hair.

It was the last time they'd seen each other.

Outside, it still wasn't getting light. It was 4 AM now, and the thick choking blackness matched his mood. A splatter of rain across the window jangled across his nerves like the lash of a whip; Mickey would be outside in that.

Couldn't wait any longer. What time would a drop in centre open? Back when he'd been on the beat, he'd known each and every one. They'd been places to avoid, unless actually searching for someone, and then only if you went in pairs. Over the years, he'd seen three squabbles in different ones escalate in murder.

 _Don't let any of them lay a hand on Mickey. If anyone so much as touches them, I'm going to kill them._

Then, and another thing he couldn't ever share. _Don't you hurt any of them, Mickey._

He shook his head, drove his hands against his eye sockets in an effort to force the images away. _I doubted him once; should have learnt by now. You can trust him, whatever that blood was. He doesn't hurt people._

 _But what if they hurt him first?_

 _In that case...you would have killed them if you'd been there. He's done nothing wrong._

Still dark. Very dark, but he couldn't wait any longer. An hour's drive there, maybe two or three hours until Mickey arrived, and then they could come back. He'd get Mickey fed, dry, bring him home, and then everything else could wait.

It felt good to be moving, even though he knew Mickey wouldn't be around for ages. Even fit and well, Mickey wasn't a morning person. _Isn't,_ he reminded himself savagely. _Mickey isn't a morning person._

The sat-nav kept up a steady stream of chatter that he appreciated because it was a distraction from the surroundings. Even so, it was evident that Dagenham had a tired and run down look that reminded him of most of the estates around Sun Hill. He guessed that it looked only too familiar to Mickey.

A Catholic church; was it the one which had shaped Mickey's faith? Another thing they never got around to discussing, and now, he figured that it was too late. But it wasn't the church itself that he wanted; _although I guess he'll come back here sometime, so it might be a good place to nab him._

 _Stop thinking of him like a criminal. You just want to find him because he's your friend._

 _NO. Because he's my son._

Church hall had to be close, didn't it? Searching in the dark and the rain was nearly impossible, not least because he could see a few dark shapes sprawled in front of the buildings and each of them demanded his full attention.

'Mickey!' He called the name a couple of times, as though it was a talisman that could lead him to its subject, but it occurred to him that Mickey wasn't going by that name anymore.

The building seemed to be wearing a curtain of shadows, and only one light was on inside. Despite a few religious touches – a cross over the door, a stone figure of an angel with graffiti painted over it – the place still looked like a warehouse. _He wouldn't like to go in a place like this, would he? Not unless he was desperate._

'Hello? Anyone there?' The heavy wooden door swung open to reveal a starkly white room that reminded him of a hospital, and he wasn't sure what aspect would be worse for Mickey. Two dozen blue plastic chairs were casually arranged around white picnic tables; in the background, fat was spitting listlessly in a pan.

'You're too early,' a voice called, and it echoed in the room. 'Nothing on the tables yet.'

'I was looking for someone.'

'Yeah?' The owner of the voice emerged from the kitchen area, rubbing his hands with a red tea towel. 'Who are you?'

He flashed his warrant card; it was easier than explaining, and the man rolled his eyes.

'Who's done what now?'

'A man...Mickey...Sorry, Wynn. Wynn.' He couldn't keep the affection out of his voice; knew it showed by the curious glance the man gave him. Assessing, almost _and oh, God, his name, his name, I never should have done that, should I? All the coaching I gave him and Heaton yelling at him about not forgetting his lines, and I go and do something like that. Please, let him think it was just a nickname or something._

'Coffee?'

'Yes.' It was served scorching hot and black without him asking, as though it was the only way it was offered. Mickey wouldn't drink it if he was dehydrated.

'So who are you?'

'Jacob Edenski. I'm in charge here today.' He yawned and lent back in his seat; a tall black man, perhaps in his late thirties with a vivid red slash through his hair. He wore jeans, white trainers and a blue shirt with cufflinks; looked like someone who Meadows could trust and Mickey could handle.

'We open at seven, so you've got a bit of a wait. And your Mister Wynn don't normally show until eight or so, so you might as well get comfy.'

He swallowed some more coffee. 'Don't you want to know why I need to see him?'

Jacob shrugged. 'I cook breakfasts and serve drinks. Other people do all the chatty stuff. The only reason I know your fellow is that he's the quiet one; he sticks out. Comes in, eats, sods off. He ain't no problem. That's what I told the last guy who was in here looking for him.'

For a second, he could feel the panic as a physical sensation; the cold trails around his body left by his blood, the too hard thumping of his heart. 'Someone's been looking for him?'

'Yeah. Two guys. One older, one young. Both been here a couple of times, asking.'

'What were they like? Did you – did you tell them anything?' _Please no, don't have done that – he needs help, not being hunted. Mind, is that much better than what I'm doing?_

'No, of course I didn't. Look, mate, I told you about him cos you look like a decent sort and you care about him. You ain't faking that. I don't care if you're screwing him or working with him or what, even if you're his damn Dad, but I know you ain't gonna beat his brains out when you find him. Those two...I weren't so sure, so I didn't tell them. Best for him.'

'Is he alright?'

One thin, pierced, eyebrow rose. 'He's a drinker and he's living rough, so I'd say not. But he's savvy enough to stand trial if you nick him, don't worry. Hey, do you want some grub while we wait for them to arrive?'

He didn't.


End file.
